


As long as you come back to me (I'll be waiting)

by Lydia_Martin_trash



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Before Season 5, Bittersweet Ending, Cheating, Crying, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Illegal Activities, Love Confessions, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Stiles, Post-Season/Series 04, Recreational Drug Use, and is a bad boyfriend in general, as in Stiles cheats on Malia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-02 02:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lydia_Martin_trash/pseuds/Lydia_Martin_trash
Summary: After getting an unexpected proposal from an unexpected source, Stiles ends up at Derek's doorstep with a bag of pot and a gigantic crush. They make some bad decisions together.They don't regret it, though.





	As long as you come back to me (I'll be waiting)

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to my lovely beta, Danielle!  
> More info and spoilers at the end notes.

            There are three Greenbergs at Beacon Hills High, each more legendary than the last, all well-known by teachers and students alike, none of them related. The first is a goth senior infamous for leading Harris to a public breakdown in class the day before his disappearance; the second is a junior lacrosse player supposedly caught stealing Coach's underwear; the third a freshman hell-bent on campaigning for vegan options at the cafeteria.

            Lydia likes the third one better, but Stiles' favorite is definitely junior-Greenberg, aka jock-Greenberg, aka his classmate, aka the school pothead. Possibly the town pothead. Maybe ‘favorite’ is too strong a word. Stiles doesn’t like him, but he can be entertaining. They've had side by side lockers since freshman year, and Greenberg always goes out of his way to avoid Stiles out of some hysterical notion that Stiles has a healthy respect for the law and will sic his dad on him at the first suspicious sniff.

            To say Stiles is surprised to be ambushed getting his books for second period by just this Greenberg is to put it lightly.

            "Yo, Stiles! Heard you went to Mexico last week," he says, all lotion-tanned skin and chemically whitened teeth.

            It's only muscle memory that stops Stiles from dropping the pile of books in his arms − Chemistry, AP World History, AP English, suddenly he can’t even remember which book he was taking out of the locker and which he was putting away − as he flails and almost hits Greenberg in his stupid square face.

            "Wha− how? Yeah, I mean... What?" he says, very eloquently, if he says so himself, just to snap when the slimiest grin in the story of grins starts to spread on Greenberg's face: "What's it to you anyway?"

            "Wow, bro, you need to chill. It's just a question." He pulls his hands up in the universal ‘I’m a harmless dude, bro’ gesture.

            And then he pats Stiles shoulders as if they are the best of friends. Stiles' eyebrows try to climb his forehead, and he can actually, without any exaggeration, feel his clothed − by two layers! − shoulder start breaking in hives where Greenberg has touched him.

            "Do you need something? Because you haven't talked to me since−" _since you started smoking_ , Stiles' mind supplies, but he thankfully manages to bite it back. "Soooo... any reason we're breaking tradition?"

            Stiles is a big fan of tradition, if only because that means entering a room and seeing only the back of Greenberg's head as he runs for the hills for the rest of his life. Yet... lately people have started coming to them with problems. Mostly to Kira, bless her little kitsune heart, who is the most approachable by far, but if there's a reason Greenberg has gotten over his fear of him, possibly a supernatural-related reason, then he has to listen. It comes with being the town's budding Supernatural Police, even if Scott looks like he has bitten a lemon any time Stiles says this.

            "Nah, just thought we should catch up. It's been a while. I bet you've got lots going on with you. Girlfriend. Hobbies. Work.” Greenberg wiggles his blonde eyebrows exaggeratedly, like the movement can cajole Stiles’ secrets out of his mouth.

            In all honesty, Stiles' favorite part about Greenberg has always been his habit of running away from him. He even runs away during lacrosse, regardless of whether they are playing at the same time or not, and Stiles is okay with this, much more than with this new development. He's always trusted his gut, and his gut says that, while not dangerous, Greenberg is someone best left to an easy and somewhat funny acquaintance. The guy is an ass. Being kind of an ass himself, that's not a title Stiles bestows lightly upon others.

            Thinking of asses leads Stiles unbidden into thoughts of Derek, so he tries a Hale approach to the situation, since the Stiles Stilinski approach seems to be failing him at the moment. And since he has neither Derek's arms nor Derek's supernatural strength to pin people to walls or lockers or whatever, he limits himself to frowning and glaring with all his might.

            Alas, Greenberg in unfazed.

            "Do you need to go take a shit or something? Don't let me stop you, we don't want any accidents." He laughs.

            _If it were Derek glaring you'd already be decomposing on the floor_ , Stiles thinks, rolling his eyes, but stays silent − a real victory, for him. He tries to cross his arms but remembers half-way that he's holding three incredibly heavy, incredibly boring books, so he just ends up lifting them to his chest and then lowering them for no reason. Greenberg's eyes follow the motion and he must sense the need for a subject change before the cloud of awkwardness that follows Stiles at all times asphyxiates them both, because instead of shutting up, grabbing his books and fucking off, he leans on his locker and says:

            "So, which class you got now?" He tries to take grab at Stiles’ books, but Stiles slaps his hand away.

            "Class!” He yells. He doesn't even remember where he needs to go, he's so shocked at having to actually interact with Greenberg, but he shoves two of his books into his locker at random, locks it and prepares to bolt. The bell hasn't even rang for the first time, but if Greenberg won't turn tail, someone must. "Gotta go, see you later − or not! Let's not."

            He turns away and all but runs down the corridor. He’s so freaked out it takes real effort to remember he has Mr. Yukimura now, and he knows he won’t give him any slack just for being sorta friends with his daughter, so he runs into the classroom before everyone else and picks a desk as far back as he can, pulls his homework out of his backpack and hopes no one notices he brought his Chemistry book to the World History class.

            The first bell rings outside, and the classroom starts to fill. Stiles tries not to take offense at the wide berth people leave him, but that gets impossibly harder when none other than Greenberg walks in and decides to just take a seat right next to Stiles. In a classroom he has no business being in. For a class on a subject he doesn’t take.

            Stiles ignores him and his smarmy smile, grabs his phone and sends _a weird thing just happened_ to his first contact without even stopping to look who it is. He’s expecting to see something from Lydia or Malia when the phone beeps, but instead Derek’s name pops up.

            _SN?_ , the text reads.

            _Don’t know yet_ , Stiles sends back. _Probably not_.

            _Keep me posted_ , Derek says, and Stiles stares fixedly at the screen until the second bell rings and he needs to put the phone away.

 

 

 

            The thing is, if he thought Greenberg had a supernatural emergency, no way he’d stay in class. There’s one Stilinski who cares about Stiles’ education above other things, and he’s on duty at the Sheriff station right now. If supernatural shit was going down, Stiles would be out of school so fast, bat in hand and gang reunited, that every person who has ever cut class in the history of Beacon Hills would weep for joy.

            As it is, he passes Greenberg a note all but ordering him to meet him at the parking lot after classes are done and watches with rising fury as he gets up in the middle of class and tells Mr. Yukimura he got confused and doesn’t take this subject, sorry and goodbye. Everybody is so used to him pulling shit like this that he doesn’t even get detention. Mr. Yukimura is too confused to act.

            Stiles remembers all the times he got detention for fidgeting too much, or talking too loudly, or answering too many questions, and fumes.

            It turns out to actually be the perfect day to be accosted by the guy who used to be scared of you but is now set on wasting your time. Scott and Kira are off making the most of their romance because the Yukimuras have already said they’ll be going back to New York in the summer, Malia is getting a mani-pedi with Lydia to ingratiate herself and hopefully get some free Math tutoring, and Liam is doing his own thing with Mason. Stiles has all the time in the world to deal with whatever this is.

            At 3:45, Greenberg comes to him on the parking lot with a bounce in his step and takes an exaggerated look around, going so far as to press his face against Roscoe’s back window, before he points out the obvious.

            “The rest of the clique not around?” He singsongs. “Heh, I knew you were the real boss-man around here.”

            “Cut the crap.” Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s this close to seeing the inside of his brain from exasperation, and Greenberg has said two sentences so far. He is ready for this to be over already. “What do you want? Spill.”

            “Should we be discussing this here? In the open?” Greenberg whispers, and for once he looks less like a spoiled dishrag and more like someone who gives a fuck about something. “I know your Dad is the Sheriff, but still...”

            Stiles doesn’t see how that matters, but Greenberg actually has a point. People are walking around, going to their cars and bikes, mostly minding their own business, but Stiles can still feel the weight of stares on his back.

            “Fine. I’ll give you a ride home,” he says.

            The way there is quiet. After some polite inquiries about his vacation to Mexico and some desperate attempts at talking about the weather, Greenberg takes the hint from Stiles’ silence seriously, and only opens his mouth to give instructions. Stiles is biting his tongue, even though he wants to shake Greenberg and yell in his face until he explains this weirdness to his satisfaction, but he just drives, and watches Greenberg from the corner of his eye.

            He’s way too chirpy and happy for Stiles’ peace of mind, even if he’s quiet, but fuck it. Stiles will get to the bottom of this.

            Greenberg’s house is huge from the outside. It has a real, green lawn, and Stiles spies a pool in the back yard. This neighborhood is way too nice as well – Jackson used to live just a couple of blocks over – and if they couldn’t talk in the school parking lot with lots of people making noise and muffling their conversation, they sure as hell won’t talk where the nosy neighbors can hear, so Stiles reluctantly steps inside when Greenberg opens the door.

            The inside of the house looks like the home decor magazines Lydia reads. Stiles is sort of afraid of touching anything with his dirty peasant feet, but Greenberg waves him over upstairs, into his room, and that is another matter altogether.

            First of all, it smells of marijuana, as one would expect after knowing Greenberg for more than five minutes, but slightly of earth and mud too. It’s also an unholy mess of clothes, papers and other assorted items littering every available surface like there isn’t a walk-in closet two feet from the door, and a study desk. Stiles can’t help but shudder thinking of his own immaculate, clean bedroom. Unless he’s in the middle of a project, he loathes things being out of place.

            “Over here,” Greenberg says, and makes his way to the ensuite bathroom without bothering to avoid anything on the floor. “I want to show you something.”

            He waits on the doorway, and Stiles tries to not feel too guilty about stepping on clothes and books along the way and focus on what Greenberg could possibly want to show him.

            Maybe he was wrong, and Greenberg actually has a supernatural problem. His mind jumps to an image of Liam, duck-tapped and scared and also newly bitten in Scott’s bathtub, but he dismisses it. Greenberg may be an idiot, but he’s not the brand of idiot who’d kidnap someone and then call Stiles to fix his problems. More importantly, no way he’d be able to subdue a supernatural creature.

            Unless they were hurt already, of course.

            This time, his mind helpfully supplies an image of Derek laying down in the desert, bleeding to death and telling him to go away, and before he knows it he’s shoving Greenberg aside and stepping into the bathroom, chest tight.

            “What… the fuck?” He says.

            Of course, there is no Derek inside, wounded or otherwise. There is not even Liam or anyone else. What there is a huge bathtub filled with damp earth, marijuana plants, green and grown almost taking over.

            He stays there, mouth hanging open in sheer incredulity. Greenberg takes that as a good sign and picks himself up from the cabinet where Stiles shoved him with an easy smile full of unearned confidence.

            “Pretty neat, huh?” He says, a clear note of pride in his voice, and pats Stiles on the shoulder again.

            To be honest, he should be, Stiles has to admit even as he takes Greenberg’s hand off him. The logistics alone must have been a nightmare. He somehow managed to build himself an irrigation structure connected to the sink, with a hose curling in the middle of the plants, giving them water drop by drop in a calculated rhythm. There is also a structure of light bulbs above the bath, shining bright and continuously, but Stiles can’t see to what that is connected.

            “Going from consumer to producer?” Stiles asks, amused despite himself.

            Greenberg laughs. “Seemed like the next logical step.”

            “Why are you showing me this?” Stiles finally asks the million-dollar question. Weird as it is to have your own cannabis plantation when you have the money to just buy as much as you want somewhere, it’s even weirder to show it to the Sheriff’s kid.

            “Well, man, seemed like the step after the next step.” He shrugs. “I know you deal with heavier stuff, but a little extra never hurt anyone, right?”

            “Sure.” Stiles agree, then does a double take. “Eh?”

            Greenberg has the gall to give Stiles his slimy smirk.

            “No need to be shy. I know you’re getting McCall whatever he’s taking, and now that Liam kid too. And your girlfriend, and McCall’s girlfriend. And even Lydia Martin, way to go!” He puts a hand up, like he’s waiting for a high-five, then just waves it around when Stiles ignores it in favor of gaping unattractively at him. “It’s alright, your secret is safe with me.”

            Slowly, he guides Stiles by the elbow back to the bedroom. He sits on the bed, and Stiles imitates him, telling himself he’s definitely sat on worse things. He went to the forest in his pajamas, got his feet trapped in a coyote trap, that has to top Greenberg’s bed, right?

            Oblivious to Stiles inner turmoil, Greenberg opens a minibar and grabs two beers from inside. Stiles accepts his on autopilot but doesn’t sip even as Greenberg takes a long gulp.

            “So… I supply, you sell. We could give it a try, see how it goes. If your clients aren’t into it, no harm done.” He finishes his beer and throws the can on the floor. “You get twenty percent, plus you can keep what you can’t sell by the end of the week. Fair, right?”

            “Twenty percent and I keep the remainders,” Stiles echoes, just to see if the words make more sense coming out of his own mouth.

            They don’t, but Greenberg starts to look slightly annoyed. _Good_ , Stiles thinks, _taste your own medicine, asshole_.

            “Fine, twenty-five and remainders. Deal?” He laughs again. “Come on, man, you’re twisting my arm here.”

            Stiles doesn’t say anything. He drinks a bit of the beer, then spits it back into the can. It’s some fancy exclusive brew from San Francisco, and tastes like fermented piss. He prefers distilled anyway. Stiles looks intently at the condor on the logo. It probably costs more than his Dad makes in a week, and obviously Greenberg has more than enough to buy it for himself and others.

            Yet he’s decided it would be a wise course of action to try to get into the drug dealing business with Stiles. God, the only person with worse life choices has to be Stiles himself, who has walked down a path where somehow people mistake him for a drug-dealer.

            He looks back at Greenberg, and he’s just sitting there trying to not look expectant and failing so miserably it almost makes Stiles laugh.

            “Look, man,” he says, trying to scramble for an explanation for why this is a bad idea that doesn’t involve werewolves. “I admire the entrepreneurial spirit you’ve got going on. Seriously, that’s not bad. But you’ll need to find your own client roll.”

            Greenberg looks devastated. Stiles rolls his eyes, gets up and rushes downstairs before he can say anything else. He’s just abandoned the can of beer in a cabinet full to bursting with coats, when Greenberg catches up.

            “No!” Stiles cuts him off before he can even start. “Not gonna happen, stop wasting my time! My patience is running thin.”

            “Come on! Why can’t you help a bro out?” Greenberg whines. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

            “We’re not bros, oh my God!” Stiles shouts. “That is the most ridiculous thing that has left your mouth today, and that’s saying something! Go back to sniffing Couch’s dirty laundry and leave me alone!”

            A look of fury passes over Greenberg’s face, but amazingly he takes a deep breath and holds his hands up in front of him in an appeasing gesture. Stiles has wonder how invested Greenberg is in this little scheme; normally, he would not have hesitated to try to scrub the floor with Stiles’ face, even if he would have ultimately failed.

            “I understand. I see things from your side, man, I do,” he says, even if he absolutely, one hundred percent, does not. Stiles’ snort does nothing to deter him. “But we _could_ be bros. I mean, we have known each other since we were in diapers, right? Just take this with you, as a gift. I’m sure you’ll change your mind.”

            He reaches into his varsity jacket pocket and takes out a zip-lock bag full of something greenish. Stiles catches it in the air (barely) on instinct when Greenberg throws it to him, but he’s a little hesitant on keeping it, much less taking it out the door.

            “And if I don’t change my mind?” He asks, looking at the bag in his hand. It has maybe half a pound, which is more pot than he’s ever had in his possession before.

            “You will.” Greenberg smiles confidently. Stiles is momentarily distracted by how strange his whitened teeth look under the foyer light, like they’re made of chalk, so he takes a moment to fully register that Greenberg is still talking. “You’ll see what I have is high quality.”

            Stiles could just drop the bag on the floor and go away, sure. But then again, when will something like this happen to him again?

            “If I say no after trying this, it’ll be final,” he says, knowing full well what his answer will be. “Come bother me again, and I’ll tell my Dad he should pay you a visit.”

            Greenberg snorts at the notion, but nods like it’s a done deal. He even offers Stiles a hand to shake, which Stiles promptly ignores. Still, he waves at Stiles from the driveway like he’s some wife from the 50s sending off his hard-working husband to his respectable job which is not selling drugs.

            Stiles flips him off. He has a headache the size of California, a bag of illicit drugs and no inclination to go home until both are gone.

 

 

 

            No one has ever accused Stiles of being innocent about anything. It's not like he’s completely clueless. He _has_ tried pot, if only a grand total of one time − which, considering how Dad feels about illegal drugs, he thinks is quite daring indeed. But he's no expert, and the circumstances were… exceptional.

            Mom used to do it, behind Dad's back, like it was nothing. Not often, but when she was stressed out, when Stiles had stressed her out, she'd take her glass pipe to the backyard when Dad was on shift and smoke slowly, letting the smoke out in rings between her lips as she exhaled. Stiles would run around making mud cakes or digging worms from their wild vegetable garden that had never had any vegetables, under strict orders not to bother Mommy for a little while, but he’d spy on her from time to time. She'd forget her bad mood when she was done, tickle Stiles, filthy from playing in the dirty, until he was breathless and crying, and laugh herself sick from watching him laugh. Once she pissed her pants.

            She did it less and less as she got more and more ill, and she cared less to do it where Stiles couldn’t see, as well. The very last time that Stiles remembers, was on one of her good days before the hospital. It was raining heavily, and Mom had bags under her eyes and a gloom to match the weather, but she'd loved Stiles that day. She'd baked brownies instead of smoking. They curled together on the sofa and watched cartoons as the afternoon drifted away, and she had even let Stiles have one when he asked.

            "The most important thing" she said, "is to do it with someone you trust. If something goes wrong, you know they’ll help you."

            He'd felt so happy at her words. He remembers the feeling clearly. They shared brownies and a secret that was just between the two of them and special. Mom trusted him, and he felt relaxed and lazy and wanted.

            It stuck with him; not the feeling, but the words.

            Dad didn't know, of course; still doesn't, because why would Stiles even tell him? The drama when he found her stuff hidden in a shoe-box was bad enough, no need to tell him she'd done it in the presence of her eight-year-old, or that once she'd let said eight-year-old get high and eat a whole lasagna by himself. After all, a drug is a drug, and Dad didn't have a problem with Stiles being on Adderall and Ritalin at ten, and he has to have noticed that the level of his whiskey bottle used to go down quicker if Stiles was left alone for long periods of time.

            Stiles has since been wasted, sleep-deprived, drugged, possessed or otherwise had his regular brain activity trifled with in some manner, more times than he cares to count in the last year. So, what is a little MJ compared to that?

            And he hasn't tried it again since the fateful brownie. First because it reminds him of Mom and that kills any good vibe in no time at all, and then because his best friend had a very delicate, asthmatic constitution until becoming a creature of the night and could actually die on the spot if there was any trace of smoke in the air. And neither of them could bake for shit.

            Anyway, he doesn’t want it, or miss it, or crave the peaceful stillness. Nope, not at all. What he wants is to be the son Dad deserves.

            Fucking Greenberg. Stiles gets where Couch is coming from.

 

 

 

            He decides to drive around for a while, mull his options, but before he knows it, he’s parking outside Derek’s building. He texts him a quick _I’m outside_ but doesn’t wait for an answer. He has the keys, plus, it’s not like Derek has any neighbors or a doorman to care if someone breaks in.

            There’s just Derek to care, and Derek won’t mind Stiles being here. He knows that deep in his bones, with a certainty he has for little else. Not even the sight of Derek rushing down the stairs five, six steps at a time while Stiles goes up makes him doubt.

            Derek is fully wolfed out, eyebrows gone and fangs out. He sniffs at Stiles, then his posture relaxes, and he lets his human face resurface with a pop of his neck.

            “Is it a bad time?” Stiles asks, suddenly tense. Braeden has left, barely stopped to drop Derek off in Beacon Hills, and their thing was done even before they all went to Mexico anyway as far as Stiles could tell, so he shouldn’t have company.

            Still. Derek is handsome. It’s both the supernatural gene, and the way his looks reflect how he is on the inside. He has a good heart, and he cares, and he’s looking at Stiles so softly with a half-smile, just one step above him. Stiles swallows. It’s only been less than a week, but other people don’t move at Stiles’ glacial pace. It’s not unthinkable that he’d find himself another girlfriend, even after – even after.

            “No, your heartbeat was just a little fast,” Derek says. And he must have been worried, because they’re on the second floor now, and he has run all the way from the top of the building. “It’s all better now.”

            “It is.” Stiles smiles at him, relaxing. Because it is better now, even if he can feel his heartbeat speeding up instead of slowing down. Even his headache has eased a little. “Something really weird happened today.”

            “So, you’ve said.” Derek snorts, then steps to the side and they start the trek upstairs in no great hurry. “I’ve been waiting for an update.”

            “It was nothing serious. Or important,” he explains. The stairs are too narrow for two, so he keeps brushing Derek’s arm with each step, but he finds he doesn’t mind the lack of space. “Just this classmate, Greenberg. He’s mistaken me for a drug-dealer.”

            Derek halts to a stop and looks at Stiles with such an offended expression Stiles nearly pulls something laughing. He had been more annoyed than anything up to now, but he can’t resist the way Derek’s eyebrows are moving up his forehead like two stunned caterpillars.

            “That’s flattering.” He laughs. “The face you’re making, you know. I guess it is a more plausible explanation than the truth.”

            “Your father is the Sheriff.” Derek points out. “You selling drugs should be the least possible explanation.”

            “Maybe, but not everyone jumps to the supernatural conclusion, you know?” Stiles rubs the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, and resumes climbing the stairs. Derek follows with an indignant frown. “He just saw how Scott and Liam and… everyone else I hang with, really? I guess he’s not so far off the mark. Well, he saw they were supernaturally fast and strong, and decided I was the common factor, somehow.”

            “And now he wants to get in on it too.” Derek guesses. Which, with his experience on the matter, is a reasonable train of thought, however incorrect. “You should let Scott deal with him.”

            Because that one is on him, they both know, for not being as circumspect as he should despite Stiles and Derek getting on his case all the time. Stiles and Derek share a look, and an understanding. Derek just shakes his head. He’s been very diplomatic about all things Scott for some time now.

            Truth is, Stiles would be the one dealing with Greenberg anyway, or he’d lose actual sleep over it. He needs to have his hand on the cake at all times just as much as Scott needs a break from things. It works for them, but Stiles is selfishly glad Derek trusts Stiles to make those calls even if he thinks it’s not Stiles’ problem to deal with.

            “He doesn’t want the drug, or the bite. It’s better than that.” Stiles snorts. “He wants me to sell pot for him together with my mystery drug.”

            Derek rolls his eyes so hard that for a moment Stiles can only see the whites of them.

            “Want me to go put the fear of god into him?” He offers, completely unprompted, and Stiles feels a wave of fondness wash over him, so great he has to put his hands into his hoodie pockets and shrug.

            Before he can start to overthink how uncommon it is for someone to want to solve his problems for him, he finds the zip-lock bag. He had nearly forgotten it while he talked to Derek.

            “I might take you up on that if he insists. But look what I got for a bribe!” He pulls the bag from his pocket triumphantly and waves it in the air before Derek’s eyes.

            “Is that pot?” Derek asks, just a tiny bit interested. “I thought I recognized the smell.”

            “It sure is! And he says it’s ‘high quality’, if you were wondering,” he says, complete with air quotes, though he drops the bag and Derek has to catch it with supernatural speed before it falls some floors down.

            “I wouldn’t know.” Derek shrugs. He examines the bag intently but doesn’t come to any conclusion one way or another. “Smells fresh. Earthy.”

            “Does it work on werewolves? Have you ever tried?” Stiles asks, accepting the bag back. He suddenly can’t wait for the answer. He loves information on werewolves, sure, but he can always use Scott, and now Liam and Malia, as his little guinea pigs. Information on what Derek got up to before they met, on the other hand, is harder to come by.

            Maybe that’s why Stiles covets it all the more.

            “I don’t know. And no, I’ve never had it,” he says. “Usually we metabolize things too fast to feel anything much. But...”

            “But? But?” Stiles leans a little into Derek’s space without meaning too, then steps away, embarrassed, when Derek takes a deep breath. But he’s not embarrassed enough to not want an answer. “But what?!”

            “One of my older cousins smelled like that sometimes. He was a werewolf.” He says, quietly.

            Stiles’ embarrassment deepens, but he squeezes Derek’s forearm tentatively. He gets a strange look in answer, something he can’t make sense of, but Derek doesn’t seem angry, or upset. He doesn’t try to get away either, so Stiles lets his hand fall away slowly until his little finger is entwined with Derek’s.

            “Wanna try it?” Stiles suggests. “I was gonna ask you anyway. I thought it would be more me doing it and you judging me, but we can both do it.”

            Derek looks at him intently, frowning only slightly, but with eyebrows like his even a minor frown looks immensely pissed off. Stiles is not scared, however, especially because Derek’s face soon relaxes.

            “I don’t know how to do this,” he says. “Do we use any kind of paper?”

            Stiles fist pumps in victory, which Derek pretends to ignore but must secretly find amusing, because his lips pull just the tinniest bit up.

            “No idea. I’ve only ever had it in brownies, but I can’t bake. At all.” Stiles says. They’re finally at Derek’s door, so he has to let Derek’s hand go for him to open the door. It’s kinda heavy for a human, he knows from experience.

            “I can bake. Do we just add it to a regular recipe?” He asks, completely oblivious to Stiles open-mouthed, amazed face.

            “You can bake?!” He yells, losing control of his volume. His voice echoes in the loft, and Derek gives him another amused look.

            He’s so distracted by a sudden mental image of Derek using a “kiss the cook” apron and not much else, for some reason, that he falters when he gets inside the loft.

            There are boxes piled up in a corner, a lot of them, more than someone who lives like Derek has any business collecting. The only furniture to be seen is a mattress on the floor. What little else was there just a week ago is gone.

            Stiles feels his chest tight. His headache bolts to life again, stronger than before, and he rubs a hand on his forehead. Derek stops going through one of the boxes, muttering something about measuring spoons, and looks at Stiles with a worried expression from where he’s squatting on the floor.

            “What’s the matter?” He asks. His tone is gentle, soft, and he never used to talk to Stiles like this. It’s a change, just some weeks old, but Stiles was growing to like it. Except right now he feels less cared for and more like he’s something fragile being humored.

            It doesn’t help that he feels his skin is paper thin just from looking at some stupid cardboard boxes.

            Derek notices where his gaze is pointed, and he looks back from them to Stiles, a look of incomprehension on his face.

            “I thought I had told you I was moving,” he says, then gets up and walks slowly to Stiles. He puts a hand to Stiles face and caresses a cheek with his thumb. His ridiculously soft thumb, because werewolves hardly scar, much less get callouses, and their bodies tell nothing of any hurt.

            “You did, you did. Sorry, it’s just… strange, seeing it firsthand.” He stutters, ducks out of Derek’s grasp and walks properly into the apartment. “You’ve been gone before, but you’ve never packed anything. Are you selling the building, too?”

            “No, I thought I’d leave it empty in case you ever need somewhere to regroup. I just don’t feel like living here anymore,” he says, goes back to the boxes and produces a baking pan from one of them, and a mini-oven from another. “Too much happened here for me to stay or to get rid of this place.”

            Stiles doesn’t know if he’s talking about the loft or the town. He supposes both are true but doesn’t ask for clarification. Instead, he breathes deep and helps Derek find a mixing bowl and proper kitchen utensils in the boxes.

            “So that is your little dirty secret,” Stiles says, trying to lighten up the mood. It even works a little; he can’t help but find the whole thing endearing. The mental image of Derek in an apron, frowning sexily at some flour or shit won’t leave his mind. “You like to bake.”

            “It’s hardly a secret.” Derek snorts. “And nothing like eating too much fast food for too long teaches you to appreciate a home-cooked meal, even if you have to cook it yourself.”

            “There’s no such thing as too much fast food.” Stiles points out, rather reasonably if he says so himself. He has been subsisting on take out pretty much since Mom died, and he has yet to get tired. “Unless it’s for my Dad. He’s not allowed.”

            “You’re resilient, I’ll give you that.” Derek says. He puts everything they got from the boxes on the kitchen island and turns to Stiles with a little smirk. “How do we go about this?”

            It’s more complicated than it seems at first, because apparently, it’s not enough to just add pot to a recipe. The internet gives them the process in detail, but then they argue over which recipe they should use. In the end Derek wins, because Stiles is more than okay with doing things differently than his Mom did, and they add walnuts. Maybe this way he won’t think too much about her.

            They’re both too lazy to go to the grocery store, so they ask for the ingredients delivered, and that, too, takes forever. Derek says all the delivery boys are too scared to go to his building, which Stiles finds both annoying and sad. Unless they’re scared of Derek himself, in which case it is hilarious. It’s like they’re scared of a teddy bear.

            At last, one brave soul brings them their order and is handsomely rewarded. The delivery person leaves a little less scared than he arrived, and Derek’s gets too it while Stiles tries to not get in the way and tries to argue uselessly for Derek to let him lick the bowl, so it’s a win for everyone involved.

            “Salmonella.” Derek says as the only explanation, in a final tone that leaves no room for discussion.

            Stiles snorts. As if something as mundane as salmonella could bring him down after all the shit he’s been through.

            But Derek insists, so Stiles just drops on the mattress face down and tries to will his headache away. After some time, the mattress dips with Derek’s weight too, and a hand, petal soft and impossibly warm, rubs at Stiles scalp.

            “Here?” Derek says, pressing delicately on different parts of Stiles’ head until he moans an agreement. “You smell like pain.”

            Stiles thinks he’ll go for a quick, clear-cut pain drain. Scott does that all the time if Stiles so much as stubs a toe, so he’s already used to it, even if he feels  slightly wobbly after. But Derek just rubs circles, slowly, where the pain is worse, with just the right amount of pressure to make the pain dissipate little by little, only a pleasant warmth remaining.

            Even after it’s all gone, Stiles doesn’t find it within himself to move or to say anything. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, intent and careful, but sure. If it ever even happened. And it’s just the best.

            Derek has to know the pain is gone, because he takes most of the pressure off, until he’s pretty much just playing with Stiles’ hair after a while. He stops only when something beeps, and Stiles blinks awake from his near-slumber. He registers the smell of brownies and sits up in a hurry.

            They don’t smell or taste like pot. In fact, they taste like the yummiest brownies Stiles has ever had, so he tells Derek so. Several times.

            “I don’t feel any different,” Derek says, and reaches out for another piece.

            Stiles doesn’t either, but it is supposed to take a while to hit. He remembers that much from that long past afternoon, so he just lays back down on the mattress and waits, looking on in amusement as Derek eats half the tray in one go.

            “Take a break, big guy.” He takes the tray and puts it out of Derek’s reach, on the other side of the mattress. “There’s no werewolf hospital nearby if your body decides pot works on you.”

            “I don’t need the hospital. You’ll figure something out,” Derek says. He doesn’t try to get more brownies, however, just flops down besides Stiles, and they watch the light coming in from the panel windows paint the ceiling yellow, then deep orange.

            “I guess it’s too late for you to get some curtains,” Stiles says, then startles when Derek lets out a bark of a laughter. He turns around on the mattress, shocked, and lays on his side, holding his head up with a hand so he can look at Derek properly.

            It takes some time for the laughter to die down, and even then, he gives Stiles a goofy smile that looks completely out of place on his face. Attractive, yes, but out of place.

            “I think pot _does_ work on werewolves,” Stiles whispers, in awe. That sets Derek off again, and Stiles grins at him, delighted at the sound, at the wrinkles around his eyes, the way his whole face brightens. He could get used to seeing Derek like this.

            “I always thought you are funny.” Derek grins back, then lays on his side too to be face to face with Stiles.

            “You’ve never laughed like this, though,” he points out. Tentatively, he touches the dip on Derek’s cheek, and when Derek just smiles, making no move to go away, but actually leaning on Stiles’ hand, it somehow turns into patting his beard, and then scratching it.

            Distantly, Stiles considers he might be high as well. For once, his mind is not jumping all over the place, and he doesn’t feel ready to tear off his own skin in agitation. He is… light. He’s touching Derek’s stunning face for no reason, and he’s not a nervous mess. He looks at Derek, focuses on him for real, but it feels easy, not all-consuming. Time, the loft, the mattress, it all exists around them; it’s just not as important as the way Derek’s lips curve upwards, the way the hairs of his beard is unfairly soft.

            “I didn’t think I should encourage you,” Derek admits. He closes his eyes and rubs his face on Stiles hand when he stops scratching, like a cat. “You’re already too powerful.”

            Stiles laughs, and so does Derek, and they end up sort of cuddling, sort of holding onto each other, until Stiles is on his back and Derek has half his body over his, face buried in the curve between Stile’s neck and shoulder, giggling.

            “You smell good,” he says, rubbing the tip of his nose on Stiles’ skin and probably giving him the mother of all beard burns. “So good. I’ve always thought that too.”

            “I don’t have much of a sense of smell, but back at you, dude.” Stiles giggles. “And I think you’re hot. I know that’s like, an objective fact, but I also think so, you know… in a subjective way.”

            Derek giggles into Stiles’ neck, and this moment here, Derek lovingly pining him down while they hug and are happy, it’s the stuff of many, many dreams Stiles has had and ignored in the daylight, because it was never a good moment to think about them.

            Only now the sun is still shining over them, painting them in warm hues however fast night approaches, and it’s happening. The moment is real.

            In Stiles’ dreams, usually there are less clothes involved, sure, but he’s too lethargic, too relaxed to care that his dick is still trapped into his pants, at half-mast now and aching to be touched, so he doesn’t. That can’t bring his mood down, nor can the fact that Derek seems intent on not touching from the waist down, nor the fact that Stiles has a girlfriend.

            God, he has a girlfriend. No doubt she will sneak into his house tonight and show off her painted nails and ask him for reassurance that this is the right way to be human. And Stiles doesn’t know anymore, if he ever did, but he’ll say yes.

            He has a girlfriend, even if sometimes he feels more like a babysitter than a boyfriend, and she’s way more into him than the other way around, which should be new and exciting but instead it’s just annoying. He does care about her, he does, just not enough, not as much as she cares.

            He has a girlfriend, and his Dad likes her, and his friends like her. He has a girlfriend whose existence seems so distant when Derek says he thinks Stiles is handsome too.

            “Derek, hey,” Stiles says to the ceiling, half hoping it’ll go unheard, but no such luck; slowly, Derek lifts his face and looks at Stiles as intently as he can, with a silly smile on his face.

            “Yeah?” He asks, and promptly lowers his face to nuzzle Stiles cheek.

            Stiles laughs, wills his hands to work so he can bury them on Derek’s hair, on his back. He feels like he’s floating away, and it is both freeing and terrifying, but he trusts Derek will ground him.

            “What were you trying to tell me, before?” At the confused look Derek gives him, he explains. “In the desert. When you were...”

            He can’t finish the sentence. He chokes on it. Just remembering it makes his chest hurt, so he just hugs Derek harder, closer, to reassure himself that he’s really there, real and solid and breathing. And Derek reciprocates, hums softly on Stiles’ cheek, and lets more of his weight press down on him.

            “You know the answer, don’t you,” Derek says. He looks down at Stiles fondly, eyes lucid and open. He rubs their noses, puts their foreheads together.

            Stiles feels light-headed. Their breath mingles when he speaks.

            “I want to hear it,” he admits, readies himself to grovel and beg. He wants to hear it so much suddenly it’s almost a need, he has no dignity, but he doesn’t even get to open his mouth before Derek says it.

            “I love you.” He says with a smile. “I love you. That’s what I was trying to say.”

            In a second, the whole world disappears. Faintly, Stiles knows it still exists, still surrounds him, but it’s too much to process. A part of him, the part that is forever restless, the part Mom feared, and Dad ignored, has so many questions. Why did Derek try to say it then, why is he saying it now? Why did he love Stiles last week, does he love him still, will he love him tomorrow? Why did he send him away, then, while he died, if they both wanted him to stay.

            He silences those questions, leaves them to agonize in his chest.

            Derek wouldn’t lie to him, that much is certain.

            The world comes back to him in technicolor.

            “I… I trust you, Derek.” He whispers; all other words, better words, lose themselves on the way out of his throat.

            Derek smiles so bright, like he got to hear a love confession too. Stiles has never been more jubilant or inadequate than in this moment. He closes the distance between their mouths all the same.

            Derek’s lips are soft, and so is his tongue, the inside of his mouth, the skin of his face, his beard. His kiss is hard, biting. It feels like he’s barely keeping himself from consuming Stiles, from eating him alive on this thin mattress on the floor, and then there’s no holding back. He pins Stiles down with his whole body and rubs against him, hips rolling in a desperate, violent motion, until they’re both completely hard.

            Stiles is so turned on he forgets to be afraid. He lets his hands wander Derek’s body, pulls at his clothes with too much strength and they both laugh into the kiss when Derek’s shirt rips.

            “Where did you even buy this?” Stiles giggles. “Aren’t you rich or something?”

            “Or something,” Derek confirms, let’s go of Stiles and kneels between his legs. Stiles can only watch while he throws what is left of the shirt away, then his belt. He has his hand down Derek’s pants before it’s done being opened and is torn between watching the way Derek’s cock jumps in his palm, big and warm and _there_ , or the way Derek’s eyes close in pleasure and he rolls his hips into Stiles’ fingers.

            Before he decides, Derek takes his hands off and does away with his pants, and Stiles’ clothes go next in a hurry. He doesn’t see where they end up, can’t make his eyes track anything but the way Derek’s body moves to cover his again.

            The contact of skin on skin is better than anything Stiles has ever felt. He tries and fails to swallow a moan when Derek takes their dicks together in a hand and pumps lazily, jerking them off slow and sure but like an afterthought, because most of his attention is on bruising Stiles’ neck. He’ll leave marks, red and purple, and everybody who looks will know. Stiles can’t bring himself to mind. He wants it, so he throws his head back, offers more of his neck to Derek’s teeth, and he does his best to mark him back.

            Fingers and nails drag on Derek’s strong back, leaving raised lines that fade in a heartbeat but make Derek speed up his pace. Stiles smiles, lets his hands wander until he has two handfuls of Derek’s round soft ass to squeeze. He knows his hands are large, freakishly so even, but it’s not enough to cup him properly, it’s just enough to pull him closer.

            The grip on his dick should be almost painful, too tight and dry to be only pleasure, except Derek’s dick is leaking a ridiculous amount, pearly drop after pearly drop viscous and messy and too much to be normal or human.

            Stiles is _into_ it, into the pain and the discomfort and the wild growl that leaves Derek’s throat, he’s so into it, so much it’d be embarrassing if he even could feel anything but hungry and turned on right now. Instead, he lets go of Derek’s ass and strokes the head of their cocks together wherever the movement of Derek’s hand allows, and takes a bit to his mouth, just to see if it tastes different as well.

            And it does, maybe slightly saltier, muskier, but Stiles can barely register anything because the act does something to Derek. He lets go of Stiles’ neck to watch it, and then his eyes are electric blue, fangs apparent. He pushes Stiles to the top of the mattress and lowers himself to Stiles’ crotch.

            He licks Stiles’ dick, nuzzles and kisses until Stiles is mewling, hands buried in his hair with no regards to being delicate or gentle. He pulls at the hair, tries to drag Derek away because it’s too much, too good, too fast, but Derek won’t be moved, scarcely puts the effort to avoid getting his beard or fangs on him.

            Stiles’ spunk hits Derek’s beard when he comes with a shout, and he laughs at the sight.

            “I tried to warn you,” he points out, unapologetic.

            Derek makes a face like he’d raise an eyebrow if it was there but doesn’t seem too bothered. He wipes his beard roughly, gathers as much come as he can on his fingers, still with a heated look on his eyes. Then he gets his face under control again, his fangs and claws, and pulls the animal in before pushing Stiles’ legs up with one arm and dipping his fingers – stained with Stiles’ own come – to caress at his hole.

            Stiles melts into the mattress.

            The jolt of arousal is too intense, too soon. It’s never like that when he fingers himself, and no one else has. Derek could make him beg, he knows with sudden clarity, he could make him beg until he cried, he could do whatever he wanted to Stiles, with Stiles, he could even pull his pants up and leave him unsatisfied and burning and Stiles would not only let him go, no, he’d thank Derek at the door.

            The idea fills him with a strange frisson, and he thinks, _later_. Now Derek pushes a finger inside, then another, and takes Stiles’ dick into his mouth for real until he’s ready and hard again.

            It takes nearly no time at all, and he lets go of Stiles with a wet sound and a victorious smirk. The next thing Stiles knows, he has his legs around Derek’s waist and is moaning _yesyesyesplease_ as Derek fucks him.

            He can’t believe the pressure, can’t believe how full he is, how good it feels. The faster Derek moves, the harder he gives it to him, the more Stiles wants it. He claws at Derek’s back, at his ass, trying to urge him on, to pull him closer, but he’s at Derek’s mercy in the end. Even the strength to ask for more is too much to muster. Stiles is left to cry in pleasure, eyes rolling and toes curling at the way Derek fucks deep into him.

            The second time he comes is almost a surprise. He’s twisting what passes as a sheet in his hands, and Derek is rolling his hips in the most delicious ways, then suddenly he’s done playing. He changes the angle, pushes Stiles’ legs higher and really fucks him, hitting something inside that makes Stiles whine. The fangs are back, and so are the eyes, burning bluer as light disappears. He grabs Stiles’ necks between his pointy teeth gently, holding him in place, and Stiles watches him claw the mattress on the side of his head to shreds even as he comes.

            They fall back into what is left of the mattress, exhausted. Stiles can actually feel his eyelids dropping, has time to decide that yes, he’s going to sleep there in this sanitary hazard with Derek Hale, and then lets himself fall asleep.

 

 

 

            When he opens his eyes again, it’s too dark to see. It takes the second his eyes take to adjust to panic, and the weight of Derek’s arm around his waist to calm him down again. He feels rested, and sore, and it may have been either hours or eons since he’s closed his eyes. He looks into the dark, only starting to make out the forms around the loft and considers drifting back to sleep when Derek draws him closer and kisses the back of his neck; just stay here in this moment and be content.

            He can see a bundle that must be his clothes not too far from where they’re lying down. Something starts to glow in there, and Stiles can already guess something like twenty missed calls.

            He looks somewhere else; he can do that for now. Then his eyes focus on the outline of cardboard boxes and he wishes he hadn’t. His eyes are glued to their silhouette.

            “Where will you go?” He asks. “When will you go?”

            Derek nuzzles at the back of his neck lazily, hugs him and Stiles can’t help smiling a little as he holds the hairy forearms circling him.

            “I leave on Sunday. I’ll visit Cora for a while,” Derek says, drags his fingers up and down Stiles’ happy trail. “Then there’s something else I want to look into in South America.”

            He doesn’t need to ask to know its supernatural stuff. Derek may have given up his red eyes, but he won’t ever let go of what he thinks are his responsibilities, no matter how much what he needs and deserves is to go on a vacation. Somewhere tropical, preferably. But it must not be urgent, or he’d give Stiles all the dirty.

            Stiles takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and imagines for a second that he’ll ask Derek to stay. It’s not unreasonable; there’s plenty of supernatural trouble in Beacon Hills, no need to go on a road trip to find it. This doesn’t need to be a goodbye. Stiles can pull an even bigger dick move and break up with Malia by text, he’s already cheated on her anyway. He’s sure he’d get at least Lydia in the divorce. And they’ll break the news to Dad quick, rip off the band aid, open with “I might be a little gay after all!” and finish with “now I have a boyfriend!”, just shoehorn a reminder that Dad likes Derek in the middle. He’ll take Derek on a date, something fun and low pressure, maybe the movies, or to a dinner. Derek can visit Peter in Eichen to yell at him for being a murderous dumbass and send Cora a plane ticket, that way Stiles gets to see her too.

            He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Derek starts rocking him, shushing him gently, and then he’s mortified.

            “Please don’t think I’m a crybaby in bed,” he says, after he’s done sobbing. He curls into himself, but Derek makes him turn around.

            Stiles is saddened and strangely relieved to see tears in his eyes too.

            “I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important.” He cups Stiles’ cheek, brushes the wet paths with soft hands. “I don’t ever want to leave you.”

            Of course, what they want is forever irrelevant. They’re just that kind of people. Stiles knows all too well, knew while he left Derek to die without him in the desert, they’ll do what they must. He won’t abandon everything to follow Derek, he won’t ask him to stay. He can’t make Derek choose.

            It’s Stiles’ turn to be left behind now.

            A week ago, he’d thought nothing could be worse than doing the leaving.

            “We’ll see each other again, right?” Stiles says, putting a hand over the one stroking his cheek. “You won’t disappear on me.”

            Derek smiles at that, leans forward to rub his nose on Stiles’.

            “I won’t disappear. I’ll come back to you,” he says, and the way his voice rasps makes Stiles’ heart ache.

            He nods, and doesn’t ask for any promises.

 

 

 

            When he gets home, he lines his window and his bedroom door with mountain ash. He ignores Malia’s calls, and then Lydia’s. He tells Scott he’s feeling sick when he invites him to a lacrosse pickup game the next morning, and stays moping in bed until Dad pulls his covers down.

            “Are you really going to waste your Saturday here?” He asks, and then puts a hand over Stiles’ forehead and the other on his own. He takes it off reluctantly but keeps looking at Stiles with a worried frown. “Are you alright, Stiles?”

            Stiles knows he looks awful. He spent half the night blinking tears from his eyes, and the other half staring blankly at the wall. His eyes are burning, his nose is stuffed, and there are paper handkerchiefs all around his bed. Somehow, he doesn’t think Dad will believe he spent the night jerking off, and what life is he even living if that is the best option?

            “Dad, do you have to be anywhere today?” He asks instead of answering.

            They end up binge watching Star Wars in the couch, and Dad makes him orange juice from the fruit. Then he takes Stiles’ temperature, looks quizzically at the thermometer when it blinks green.

            “You don’t have a fever, but I’ll keep checking,” he says, squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

            Stiles hates this. He doesn’t remember the last time he got sick, post-possession night terrors aside, and Dad has a lot to do besides coddling his nearly adult son. A son who’s not even truly sick, by the way, just hiding like a coward.

            Out of everyone, Derek is the only one who hasn’t called.

            It’s for the best, of course. He had walked Stiles to his jeep the night before, and they had kissed and kissed against the door, but when he stepped back they had both taken a look at each other and known they wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore before Derek’s trip, not if Derek was to leave at all. So, Stiles had driven home and decided he would stay there until Derek was far away enough.

            “Dad, something happened yesterday.” Stiles begins, but then stops. He doesn’t know how to go on, especially because Dad turns to look at him with an attentive look, like he’s been expecting it all along.

            “You can tell me anything, son,” he says, reassuring. His hand finds Stiles’ shoulder again and stays there this time.

            The truth is on the tip of his tongue, the whole thing, even though the last time he owned his decisions he ended up hand-cuffed to Dad’s desk. _I cheated on my girlfriend, I like men as well as women, I’m in love with Derek Hale and I had to let him go_. Which one would be the most disappointing to Dad, he wonders. Would he even be disappointed, or would he just sigh like he does, like nothing Stiles does surprises him anymore?

            “Dad, I tried pot yesterday.” He babblers, feeling like a slimy, wormy liar. “Greenberg gave it to me and I thought it would be cool to do it. I’m sorry.”

            Dad blinks completely blind-sided. Stiles has to smirk a little at the familiarity of it, even if it feels bittersweet to swallow everything else back. Of all that happened yesterday, Greenberg and his professional aspirations are the least of his problems, as insignificant as the guy himself. But it’s not a lie, however bizarre the truth may be.

            “That’s… not what I was expecting at all,” he says, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder again. Then he lets go and falls back on the couch, staring at the TV with a little shake of his head. “Most teenagers don’t admit that to their parents.”

            “I guess.” Stiles agrees, focusing on the TV too. Lea is about to tell Han she loves him, and he won’t tell her he loves her back. That used to be the height of coolness, but suddenly Stiles wants to jump into the movie and hit Harrison Ford’s stupid face.

            “Well, thank you for telling me,” Dad says with far too light a tone of voice.

            Stiles looks back at him with an arched eyebrow. Dad shrugs.

            “I figured you’d have done it much earlier than this. I guess it wasn’t too good an experience?” He smirks.

            Stiles thinks of how yummy the brownies tasted, of spending the whole afternoon around the loft doing nothing but get in Derek’s way, of feeling free and settled at the same time. Most of all, he thinks of kissing Derek, of having sex with him and sleeping in his arms on his tattered mattress, of Derek saying he loves him, and buries his face in a cushion between his knees with a pained groan.

            Dad snorts at that, getting the wrong idea entirely.

            “Let that be a lesson to you. Plus, it’s a moot point to punish you more, since you’re still grounded for going to Mexico, and look like you’ve been hit by a truck.” He concludes pointing at the glass of juice on the center table. “Drink all of that.”

            He emerges from the cushion and drinks obediently. Dad looks at him and his whole face softens when Stiles lets a sniff or two escape.

            “Don’t worry about it, okay? I’m not angry,” he says. “Lots of good people try stuff once or twice. You still have some growing up to do, some mistakes to make under your belt.”

            “Thank you, Dad.” Stiles says, meaning it.

            “That said, no need to rush to make them, son.” He warns, only half-joking.

            “I’ll wait.” Stiles says, smiling sadly at his empty glass. “I have nothing but time.”

 

 

 

            On Sunday morning, he opens his phone, ignores the absurd number of messages from his friends (you’d think he was at war or something with those people) and girlfriend (god, what will he even do about that?) and sends Derek a text.

            _Have a safe journey_ , it reads, and he feels silly and ridiculous, but hopes it conveys so much more.

_Stay safe until I’m back,_ Derek texts almost immediately. And then _I love you_.

            “I love you too.” Stiles mouths at the phone. But he’ll save those words for the next time they see each other in the flesh.

            He’s sure things will be better then.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by a gifset of Melissa saying she suspects Stiles is Scott's drug dealer, and things degenerated from there.
> 
> A classmate gives Stiles pot. He and Derek get high and have sex even though Derek is about to leave Beacon Hills and Stiles has a girlfriend. Let me know if I'm missing a tag.


End file.
